“A kitten is, in the animal world, what a rosebud is in the garden.”
― Robert Sowthey
Photo by Jean Pike
The Fruit of the Spirit
The fruit of the Spirit is love for our sharing,
It’s joy in the gospel that we have from you.
It’s peace that we live out with courage and daring;
It’s patience, for we know that we have sinned, too.
It’s kindness in all things and generous giving;
Its faithfulness seeking to follow your way.
It’s gentleness, Lord, and it’s self-controlled living;
Now make us more fruitful in these things, we pray.
Biblical Reference: Galatians 5:22-23
Tune: Traditional Welsh melody (“Let All Things Now Living”)
Text: Copyright © 2006 by Carolyn Winfrey Gillette. All rights reserved.
Email: email@example.com New Hymns: http://www.carolynshymns.com/
Used with the Permission of Carolyn W. Gillette
** For permission to use the hymn and/ or to get a copy of the hymn formatted for worship bulletin use please contact (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Photo: Marge McCoy
Chunky Apple Sauce
3-4 lbs peeled, cored, quartered apples
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup whiye sugar
1 cup water
1/2 tsp salt
Put all ingredients in large pot. Cover. Bring to boil. Lower heat and simmer 20-30 minutes. Remove from heat. Mash with potato masher *. Serve warm, refrigerate, or put in freezer for later!
* For chunky applesauce, don’t mash!
Recipe Courtesy of Betty’s Journal
Photo by Jean Pike
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
Photo by Marge McCoy